“I’m glad you trust me with this,” I say, softer now, because the gratitude in my voice is real. “It means more to me than you could ever know.”
Her fingers find the edge of my waistband beneath the covers, a small, familiar anchor, and the hush of the house shifts around us, no longer an empty silence but a room that feels like a plan waiting to be filled. I roll onto my back and draw her closer, and already my mind is mapping the first lessons: stance, weight, the way a voice can become a line of defense.
I let my palm travel down her spine, grounding us both while my thoughts begin to circle the practicalities. I’ve come a long way since surgery, but I’m still in recovery; I know the limits of my own body well enough to respect them. If I’m going toteach her the way I want to, then I have to do it right. I can’t do anything in half measures or improvise around things that could get us hurt.
Training Celeste the way I want to isnotsomething I’m willing to half-ass.
If I do this, I need to do it right. For her.
So I promise myself the small, sensible steps: call my PT at first light, explain what we’re planning, and get the green light or the adjustments we need. We’ll build a program that’s progressive and safe, that turns fear into habit and habit into confidence. She deserves more than my good intentions; she deserves the version of me who knows the boundaries and won’t pretend otherwise.
When I feel her breathing slow, the steady rhythm of sleep finally coming, I press my forehead to the crown of her head and whisper the thing she didn’t ask for but needs to hear. “No one will ever touch you like that again. I’ll make sure you have every tool you need to take your life back.”
* * *
The machine glares at me like a small, smug opponent. All the chrome and buttons and constellation of blinking lights that belong in a cockpit, not a fucking kitchen. I press what I think is the start button for the third time, and it hisses, offended, as if I’ve insulted its dignity. Theo’s coffee maker could probably launch a satellite; it will not, however, make me a decent cappuccino. Would he get upset if I launch it into space, where it belongs? Probably. I don’t want to be around him more than I absolutely have to, so I just need to walk away.
I wanted to surprise Celeste this morning, trying to useTheo’s espresso machine, but he only gave me instructions for the French press I don’t need. Celeste likes the foamy stuff that comes with a little art on top. I pictured a steaming cup waiting for her when she woke, the small, domestic thing that says I was thinking of you. Instead, I turn off the machine—maybe—and fill a glass with cold water. We’ll hit Bear & Brew when she’s up. It’s not the cinematic good morning I was hoping for, but at least I won’t hand her a mug of burnt sludge and call it romantic.
Glass in hand, I brace my hip against the counter and stare at my phone like it’s a detonator. I haven’t had caffeine yet, so I can’t even pretend I’m awake. Calling my PT’s office and having to speak to Kelsey before coffee is like willingly stepping into a tornado made of glitter and unsolicited pep talks.
It barely rings once before Kelsey’s voice explodes through the speaker, bright enough to make my eyes twitch. “Lucian! Oh my gosh—hi! This is totally unexpected. I literally just walked up to the front desk, and you called. This is kismet! How’s my favorite patient?”
I press the heel of my hand to my forehead like I can press the volume down. “I’m calling to speak to the doctor.”
“He’s busy, but I can talk to you. What’s up?”
Give me strength. “Okay, then I need to ask you something.”
“You want to ask me something? Yes, of course, anything!”
“I want to start training someone, we would be doing things like sparring and basic self-defense. Is that something I can do where I’m at in my recovery? I know the doctor told Orion I’m cleared for bodyguard work, but how does he feel about me spending days on end physically with someone? I need to know if this is going to lengthen with my recovery.”
There’s a long pause, with Kelsey, silence usually means she’s been disconnected because heaven forbid she stop talking for more than thirteen seconds. I glance at the screen, half expecting the call to have dropped.
“Training someone? Who are we talking about here?”
“Does it matter?” I ask, I don’t add more because then she’ll start with the follow-up questions, the prying that will turn into a thousand tiny reasons for her to hover. I want a medical read, not an interrogation.
There’s a soft exhale on the other end, the professional filter snapping into place over the rest of her. “Okay. Look, Lucian, that’s like,reallyambitious. You’re still in recovery, Lucian. If you’re serious, we’ll have to modify your program so you don’t compensate and put extra strain on the leg. I haven’t even seen where you’re at since you left. It shows in your chart that you haven’t been returning our calls, and I know we haven’t had any virtual sessions. I don’t know if you’re doing better or worse since you left. If you really want to do this, then we’ll need to monitor load, watch for asymmetries, and—”
“I’m not planning on throwing myself into anything crazy,” I tell her. “I’m not trying to be reckless. I just need to know if supervising basic sparring and teaching someone how to defend themselves is something I can do without undoing months of progress.”
“You can supervise, but you can’t be full-on sparring every day,” she clarifies. I can practically hear the gears in her head turning. “We can design a program where you lead drills that minimize high-impact loading. If you’re doing partner work, we’ll keep it controlled—slow, technical, with clear stop cues. And we’ll schedule regular virtual sessions so I can make sure you’re not moving backwards in your recovery.”
I’m only half-listening when the stairs in the old house make a soft creak, letting me know Celeste is awake. She appears at the base of the stairs like a quiet sunrise. She’s barefoot, wrapped in one of my shirts that swallows her, sleeves dangling, the hem grazing her mid-thighs. That’s not what she went to sleep in; what made her change?
Without saying a word, she crosses the kitchen and slides her arms around my waist from behind. The top of her head finds the hollow between my shoulder blades, and the tension Kelsey has created in me unclenches. It’s small, but my pulse slows, and the tightness in my jaw loosens as I lean back into her.
Kelsey keeps talking about stability exercises as Celeste presses a kiss to my shoulder through the cotton, and suddenly that’s all I can focus on.
“Uh-huh,” I grunt, distracted, letting Kelsey think I’m listening as Celeste slips past me and takes one look at the coffee machine before she starts pressing buttons. Where it had only mocked me, it seems to fall in line for her. After a few confident presses, the soft machine sighs as it wakes, and the kitchen fills with the bitter smell of coffee. It’s ridiculous how domestic the small ritual feels, and how much of the day can be rescued by a cup made by someone who knows exactly how you like it.
By the time I hang up, a mug slides across the counter toward me as if on rails. Celeste cradles her own cup, smirking like she’s the hero of a very small, but very important rescue mission.
“Was that your therapist? She sounds… really peppy,” she says, one brow lifting in that teasing way.
I lift the mug but don’t drink yet. “You’re the one who told me to call her.”
